


Fame Monster

by BleedingTypewriter



Series: Pegoryu Week 2020 [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Consensual forced porn watching, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Getting off to Skull's porn doppleganger, M/M, Porn Watching, Power Bottom Ryuji, Power Dynamics, Shades of praise kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:00:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25897837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: There are a lot of weird things about being famous and incognito at the same time, but the weirdest part is probably the Phantom Thieves-themed porn....Alright, maybe the weirdest part is the way Akiragets offto Phantom Thieves-themed porn.(Or maybe it's not weird at all. Ryuji doesn't seem to think so.)_______Pegoryu Week 2020 - Day 2 - Famous
Relationships: Kurusu Akira/Sakamoto Ryuji, Persona 5 Protagonist/Sakamoto Ryuji
Series: Pegoryu Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1879306
Comments: 10
Kudos: 127





	Fame Monster

There are a lot of weird things about being famous and incognito at the same time.

Every bit of Phantom Thieves merchandise is based on one backlit, grainy video of them, so it’s all an approximation. It’s strange to see them-but-not-them staring back from behind shop windows, printed on posters and t-shirts and all manner of odd memorabilia (Akira’d barred Futaba from sending him any more links after that one site with the body pillows—penile attachments optional, and god, comparing the difference between his _face_ and knock-off merch is bad enough…).

People dress up as them, first for Phandom meet-ups, then for Halloween, then for all manner of events. Morgana and Makoto give him hell for it—and to be fair, it _is_ a little risky—but Akira’s even able to cosplay as _himself_ one day, dropping in on a Phan convention just to see what the fuss is about, and the whole thing is awkward and thrilling in equal measure.

The weirdest part, though, is probably the porn.

Not even the fact that it exists.

(God, Akira _wishes_ the weirdest part about it was its existence.)

It’s the fact that it’s _hot_.

...

Okay, not all of it, obviously.

Not even most of it.

…

 _Alright_ , if Akira’s being honest, it’s this _one_ Phantom Thieves porn blog.

…

...if _pressed_ , he may have to concede that it’s this one Phantom Thieves porn blog cosplayer, who happens to be Skull’s _spitting fucking image_ from the neck down.

…

Okay, you know what? Shut up about it. He’s dating the real Skull, he has special Skull porn privileges.

(He’s actually not sure about that. Sometimes he wonders if it makes it better or worse that the porn he gets off to is kind of his boyfriend, but not really. Does that make it more or less like cheating…? Not that porn is cheating, anyway, but does it edge on it if it’s, like, verging on a version of reality…?)

(As with most post-Yaldy philosophical questions, he tries not to think about it.)

The guy’s face is off the real thing—it’s too long and a smidge too narrow—and he wears a wig instead of dying his real hair, so it’s always just a hint fluffier than Ryuji’s bleach-rough cut, and he takes more liberties with the outfit—uses far less fabric—but that just makes the differences easier to ignore. 

If he’s not a runner, he certainly has the body of one; has a lean torso and deep-cut hips and long, lithe legs. He’s Ryuji’s _exact_ height, has Ryuji’s _exact_ build...and Akira’s got nothing to go off but pictures and the occasional video clip, but he’s pretty fucking sure he’s got to be close enough to Ryuji’s _exact size_ , too. He even curves the same way, up toward his belly button and just a hint to the right, foreskin taut and wet when he gets _really_ hard, leaving the same kinds of smears on a treasure trail the same dark colour as Ryuji’s…

It’d be fine—nothing but another weird novelty—if the guy, _Skull-but-not-Skull_ , didn’t have a freakishly precise knack for pushing every last one of Akira’s buttons. It’s like he reaches through the internet and into Akira’s brain and puts onto film all the shit he finds there.

He stretches himself out and stares down the barrel of the camera, legs spread wide with his ascot tied around the base of his cock, like he’s daring Akira to lean in, untie the red fabric, replace it with his mouth…

(Ryuji’s gotten close—gotten all heavy-lidded and desperate—but he’s always _nice_. He _asks_ Akira to suck him off; holds himself steady and guides himself gentle between Akira’s lips, and it’s always so sweet and careful and _hot_ , but it only ever touches the fringes of the things he knows would look _so fucking good_ on Ryuji: things like _frantic_ and _bold_ and _impulsive_.)

Not-Skull rides a cheap plastic dildo and peeks over his shoulder while he does, asking whoever might be watching, “Do you like that? You want me to go faster?” even as he slows down and cuts the video before he gets off. “Too bad, I wanna take my time…”

(Ryuji rides him fast, usually, like the exertion will give him an excuse for that pretty blush sitting high on his cheeks. He mumbles things like, “You feel so good, Akira, you make me feel so _good_ …” and it gets Akira off like nothing else, knowing how much Ryuji loves having him inside—but _god_ , the thought of him grinding down _deephardslow_ ; _using_ Akira’s cock to get himself off…)

Not-Skull reclines in the backseat of a car showing off the come splattered over his chest, and it’s an _especially_ good photo set because the light is shadowy over the masked face but superb everywhere else, and Akira can kind of pretend it _is_ Ryuji, because his boyfriend is usually so _quick_ to clean up, like he’s embarrassed at how much he likes what Akira does to him, how _hard_ he makes him come all over himself like that, and _shit_ , in the back of a car would be _so_ hot, so _publicfilthydangerous_ , fuck, Ryuji would _never_ , but if he _did_ —

“ _Uh_.”

Akira rips his hand away from his dick so fast he fears he might give himself a friction burn. He fumbles for the mouse to close the window, but it’s taking too _long_ and he can’t focus on maneuvering the screen when he’s also trying to tuck his (possibly burnt) junk away, so he clicks the power bar beneath the computer desk with a toe and kills the whole thing.

“That wasn’t,” he says calmly, spinning in his chair as he zips himself up, “what it looked like.”

Ryuji, frozen at the top of the attic stairs, stares back wide-eyed and open-mouthed and red-faced. “You were jacking off. To Skull porn?” He doesn’t seem sure whether he’s saying it or asking it.

Akira pops his lips together. “Okay, that _was_ what it looked like.”

He’s doing a bang-up job of keeping his cool, Akira thinks, but when Ryuji tosses his head back and _guffaws_ , he admittedly goes a little pink.

“Oh my _god_ , dude!” Ryuji chortles ( _chortles_ , and it’s _not_ attractive, Akira will have him know), “You were jacking off to Skull porn!”

Akira tucks a hand up under his glasses, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose. He’s glad Ryuji’s knee jerk reaction is this (not something decidedly more horrified, like Akira’d been worried about), but by the same token, it’s more than a little humiliating. “Yeah, but–”

“Is it the mask? Do you miss it that much?”

“ _No_ , it’s not the _mask_ , it’s–”

“Like I’m _right here_ , you can just ask me for nudes, man.”

“ _It’s not about nudes_.”

“Is he hot?”

Akira huffs. “He’s _you_ , that’s the _point_.”

 _That_ gets Ryuji’s laughter petering out quick. He chokes on the edges of it as his spine uncurls all at once, eyebrows doing their best to touch his hairline. “Uh,” he says again.

Akira’s still pinker than he’d like. The tips of his ears are warm, and he’s sitting as casually as he can but he can’t seem to stop fiddling with the edge of his chair, and he hopes Ryuji can tell it’s out of humiliation (and maybe a little anger at himself for being so careless), not guilt. “Yeah,” he says. “He’s you...except he’s not, but...he _almost_ is, and I just…”

Ryuji’s eyebrows descend oddly slowly, and then draw together in the middle. “You wanna run that by me again?”

Akira sighs. _Not particularly_ , but at least Ryuji looks more curious than anything, like he’s trying to work out what’s _really_ going on here now that he’s had a good laugh at it and deemed its set-up funnier than its punchline. Akira runs his tongue along his teeth and puffs out a breath. “Okay, sit down, we need to talk.”

Ryuji sits down.

They talk.

Honestly, it’s less eventful than Akira’d both worried about and hoped.

It’s a little awkward—rushed in the spots that are most likely to hurt and unsteady in the places that edge on hot—but mostly it’s just Akira talking and Ryuji listening and both of them blushing in all the spaces in between. 

And afterward, Ryuji so specifically _doesn’t_ bring it up again that Akira wonders if he’s missed something; if the way they’d ended off—with a kiss and a laugh and assurances that it’s _good_ , they’re _fine_ , they both _get it_ —hadn’t actually been as amicable as he’d thought. His boyfriend isn’t standoffish about it—he’s his usual clingy self, dragging Akira’s head down into his lap while they watch mindless YouTube videos so he can run his fingers through his hair—he’s just _quiet_.

But then, Akira figures maybe he just needs some time to really work things through in his head.

He does, it turns out, but not the way Akira’d assumed.

A day later finds Akira letting himself into Ryuji’s apartment with his spare key, dropping by the fridge to chill the sodas he’d brought, keeping two and holding them by the neck as he opens his boyfriend’s bedroom door, letting both bottles slip out of his fingers and land on the hardwood with a dangerous double _clunk_ , letting out some stupid sound between a _what_ and a _huh_ because…

Ryuji is stretched out over his bed, nude, laying on his stomach, laptop propped on a hardcover on his pillow, screen unabashedly filled with Not-Skull’s photo sets and clips. When he hears the bottles hit the floor, he doesn’t jump up, caught, and scramble for his clothes.

( _He’s naked._ )

He doesn’t even flinch.

( _Why is he naked?_ )

He doesn’t slam the laptop shut or fiddle with the trackpad to get another site open.

( _Why is he so, so naked?_ )

He peeks over his shoulder, and looks Akira up and down, and then turns back to the laptop and asks, lazily, “Which one is your favourite?”

( _How is Akira supposed to process any of this when he’s so unexpectedly naked?_ )

Akira manages a weak, “Wha–?”

Ryuji rolls over—slowly, like nothing about this is novel—and oh. _Oh_. He’s _hard_ , resting along the cut of one hip, and Not-Skull is _right there_ on the screen on the pillow next to Ryuji’s head, and…

Akira feels a bit dizzy.

“Which one of these,” Ryuji says, jerking his head toward the displayed gallery, “have you gotten off to most?”

“I…” Akira licks his lips. It sounds far too loud, or maybe the room is just too quiet with only the laptop’s gentle hum to cover up the silence. “I don’t know.”

Ryuji grins wide enough to put his canines on display, and _shit_ , they’re always sharp, but now they seem especially so. “Why don’t you come over here and take a look? Maybe it’ll jog your memory.”

Akira blinks at his boyfriend, then down at the soda bottles, then at the laptop screen, then at Ryuji again, then at his (hard, _hard_ ) cock. “What is _happening_ right now…?” he breathes.

Ryuji shakes his head. “You wanna ask questions or you wanna come here?” he goads, and one hand brushes down over a hip to rest on his thigh, and his dick _jumps_ as he skates past it, and _fuck_.

_What the fuck is happening right now?_

…

_Why the fuck is Akira still asking questions instead of getting over there?_

He doesn’t know what to do when he gets to the bed. He sits on its edge and angles himself toward the laptop screen, tucking one leg under the other and resting his weight on one thigh. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to touch Ryuji or not. Between them, he’s never not been the one to initiate—not like _this_ , anyway: all overt, in fucking **bold**. He doesn’t know how to be seduced by Ryuji Sakamoto.

Especially not when he’s fantasized about it probably a little too much, and it’s never been like _this_ in his head.

Ryuji’s never been like _this_ , not even in Akira’s wildest fantasies.

Not even in Not-Skull’s wildest videos.

Ryuji doesn’t make a move to touch him; just rests his head in one hand and stares expectantly at the laptop until Akira hesitantly starts scrolling through the site.

He feels weirdly exposed as he looks through thumbnail after thumbnail, even though Ryuji’s the one without any clothes. It makes his fingertips tingle. “This one’s good,” he mumbles, mouse hovering over one of Not-Skull’s rarer long videos—the one where he’s sitting astride a motorcycle made up to look like Johanna (admittedly pretty hastily, but Akira’s never really paid attention to the bike in the video, anyway) and slowly grinding against the seat.

“Play it.” It’s an order, but Ryuji hardly makes it sound like one. He sounds _amused_ ; _excited_ , like he’s in on something that Akira’s not (because he _is_ , and _fuck_ that’s a rarity between them, and it’s making Akira harder than he’d have expected).

“But–”

Ryuji’s hand lands on his thigh, thumb toying with the inseam of his jeans. “ _Click play_ , Akira.”

Akira clicks play.

He glances at Ryuji, face burning behind his glasses, one hand still on the trackpad, but his boyfriend just pokes his tongue out between his teeth to curl around one canine. “Now what?” Akira asks.

“Now _watch_.”

... _alright_.

Akira turns back to the screen, and watches.

Truth be told, he’s never seen the beginning of the video; not past the first fifteen seconds or so. He usually skips forward; jumps around from the part where Not-Skull is teasing himself up to full hardness to the part where he starts leaking dark, slick streaks onto the bike seat to the part where he moans, ‘ _Yeah, yeah, fuck_ ,’ and comes right up to the handlebars. It’s weird watching the build-up in its entirety; weird watching Not-Skull swing a leg over the motorcycle and lean forward and arch his back with his ass centred in frame as he murmurs that he’s _so fuckin’ hot_ ; weird knowing Ryuji is _right there_ , watching him watch.

He jumps when Ryuji’s hand moves from his inseam. It trails up his thigh and braces near the crook of his hip, so Ryuji can use it as leverage to hoist himself up. Akira looks over at him, but Ryuji just shakes his head and repeats, “ _Watch_ ,” so it’s Not-Skull (tugging the tight scrap of fabric he calls shorts down over his hips) who has Akira’s attention when he feels fingers tug at the hemline of his shirt.

“ _Hup, hup_ ,” Ryuji encourages quietly from somewhere behind Akira, pulling the fabric up against his armpits, “Get this off.”

Akira raises his arms, and for a second Not-Skull—nude, now, from the chest down, and rolling his nipples between his fingers—is hidden behind his t-shirt as Ryuji pulls it off. His glasses go, too, all tangled up in his shirt (and he’ll have _words_ with Ryuji about that later) and Akira’s barely caught his bearings and refocus on Not-Skull—groaning some nonsense about how hard he wants it and teasing a fingertip around the head of his cock—before Ryuji’s working at the button on his pants.

Shit, Akira can barely keep up. He tries to turn, to see Ryuji, to kiss him and make sure it still tastes the same because he’s starting to wonder just who the hell this person is who’s seducing him so simply and thoroughly. But Ryuji orders, “Keep watching,” and Akira does— watches as Not-Skull takes himself in a loose fist and jerks himself slow; lifts his hips when Ryuji rugs at them, and lets his pants and underwear and socks go sliding off onto the floor.

Akira watches as Not-Skull eyes the camera lens and sticks a yellow-gloved finger into his mouth; lets Ryuji maneuver him backward toward the end of the bed, and lifts up onto his knees when Ryuji mutters the order in his ear.

Akira watches as Not-Skull leans forward to grab the handlebars and start grinding shallowly against the bike seat; feels supremely lame as he kneels there at the foot of Ryuji’s bed, almost embarrassingly hard considering the lack of stimulation, arms hanging uselessly, staring at a laptop while his boyfriend produces a series of mysterious sounds behind him ( _scraaape; shunk; click; huff_ ).

And then Ryuji’s guiding his wrists back, and wrapping his fingers around something solid and cool. Curiosity gets the better of Akira—he peeks, just a little, and finds himself gripping the low, wooden back of one of the Sakamotos’ dining room chairs tucked right up against the end of the bed.

“Keep those there,” Ryuji says.

Akira nods; shivers; _throbs_. He hasn’t seen this kind of easy authority on Ryuji since the Metaverse; since he really _was_ Skull, grinning beneath his crooked mask and growling, ‘ _Let’s tear ‘em apart_ ,’ and raining lightning down all barbaric and gorgeous. When he crawls back onto the bed, he’s wearing that same Metaverse grin, and behind him Not-Skull is turned away from the camera so it’s his torso and cock (fuck, _just like_ Ryuji’s torso and cock) in frame, and Akira grips the chair so hard the wood squeaks.

Ryuji drops a bottle of lube onto the sheets, and lays out beside the laptop, and for the first time his blush goes dark and nervous but he keeps a pretty good poker face all the same. “Keep watching,” he says, and dribbles lube over the fingers of his left hand.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Akira breathes.

Ryuji’s never—

Or, well, he _has_ , but—

Usually Ryuji presses the bottle into Akira’s hand and groans into his mouth how _bad_ he wants to feel his fingers. If Akira pulls back to watch the way Ryuji gives in, stretches out, _relaxes_ around his fingers, Ryuji lets his eyes fall shut or clenches his jaw and looks away, embarrassed. Sometimes he does it himself—reaches down between them and into his own hole, gasping and groaning against Akira’s lips the whole time.

But he’s never done this. He’s never put himself on _display_ ; never looked Akira right in the eye and slipped a finger inside himself and arched his back and started sliding in, out, in, out…

Akira twitches; leaks a drop of precome fat enough to dribble down onto the comforter. He doesn’t realize he’s leaning forward until he feels the chair slip and start to give against the floor.

“Careful,” Ryuji teases. “Don’t let go.”

“Ryuji, _fuck_ …”

Not-Skull does...something. In the background. On the screen. Akira doesn’t know, he’s not paying all that much attention. He’s locked on the spot where Ryuji’s fucking into himself, first with one finger, then two, then three, working his hips in shallow counterpoint, _so_ red but holding the fuck out, keeping his eyes locked on Akira’s face.

“What about him?” Ryuji asks, gesturing lazily at the laptop with his free hand (thrusting in _deep_ with the fingers of the occupied one, grinding down against his own knuckles with a pleased sigh).

Akira groans. “What _about_ him?”

It’s the right answer.

Ryuji pulls his fingers out and adds more lube to his palm and works it one-handed to warm it up (bless him). When he wraps his hand around Akira’s cock, he gives him no time to adjust—starts working the lube over the length of him quick and firm—and fuck, _fuck_ , Akira’s _so hard_ , he’s _sensitive_ , it almost _hurts_ , but it’s _so fucking good_ , god, _yes_ , like he’s Ryuji’s to have, to _use…_

“Stay still,” Ryuji says, and flips onto his hands and knees, and shimmies into place in front of Akira’s hips. He has to rest his weight on his chest to reach Akira’s dick; to slip a hand down between his legs and guide Akira to his hole and push himself back with a steady pressure and–

It’s always _something_ , slipping inside Ryuji; always _good, hot, slick, tight_. This, though, has Akira’s eyes rolling back in his head. There’s the familiar resistance, the moment of almost painful compression, and then the indescribable _yes_ as he slips inside. And this time he’s watching, prone and helpless, hyperfocused on the way he disappears into Ryuji’s pliant body inch by inch as his boyfriend pushes back, back, back, _relentless_ …

Akira’s hips thrust forward like a reflex, desperate to bottom out in that delicious pressure, but Ryuji freezes as soon as he does. “Stay _still_ ,” he says again, firmer, “or I’ll leave you here and you can get off with _him_.”

As if on cue, Not-Skull slips a finger into his ass on the laptop screen and groans some filthy nonsense at the camera, but it’s lacklustre, now, in the wake of what Actual-Skull had done to himself.

“Okay,” Akira breathes. “Okay, okay, just please keep– _ah, yeah_ …”

Ryuji sinks the rest of the way down Akira’s cock between one breath and the next, and Akira’s thighs shake with the effort it takes to stay still, to keep his hands on the chair behind him, to do anything but curl over Ryuji and brace himself with one hand on the bed and the other on the nape of his boyfriend’s neck and fuck down into him until he’s biting the sheets to muffle the screams.

He follows Ryuji’s (calm, commanding, _shit_ , since when can Ryuji be so fucking _calm and commanding_?) orders and keeps his hips steady and rattles the chair against the floor with the effort it takes to keep his arms back, and he’s not sure exactly what makes him say it, but as Ryuji nestles back against him, nudging his ass back and forth as he goes boneless from the chest up, face going slack with lax, unabashed pleasure, Akira sighs and mumbles, “ _Ryuji_ , I–... _thank you_.”

Ryuji shivers and tenses up around Akira, and both of them moan but Ryuji’s is longer and louder and punctuated in the middle with a little hitched breath as he lets his hips splay just a little wider; takes Akira deeper. Some of the authority slips off of him as he flushes harder and glances back almost shyly at Akira, but none of the power goes with it. “Say that again,” he groans as he starts to shift forward on Akira’s cock, and it’s quieter than before, but there’s something low and frantic in it that makes Akira obey instinctively.

“Thank you,” Akira says, and groans as Ryuji shifts back again, then forward, then back, working up a slow, shallow rhythm that has the chair rattling in Akira’s hands. “Thank you, _thank you_ …”

Somewhere above Ryuji’s head, Not-Skull’s got his own rhythm going, is goading his audience to beg for it as he leaks all over the leather seat and fingers himself sloppy and fast. Akira only knows by the sounds. He doesn’t bother looking; _can’t_ bother looking when Ryuji’s taking all the fantasies Not-Skull had stirred up in him and blowing them out of the fucking water.

“That’s right,” Ryuji mutters, and works his hips harder. He has a bit of the comforter clenched between his teeth, held tight at the corner of his mouth with one canine. He’s starting to sweat—an athlete’s sweat; a thin, all-over layer, making him fucking _glisten_ , especially around his low back where Akira can’t stop watching the way the muscles shift every time he moves. “That’s _right_...”

Akira can’t think. He can _only_ think. His mind is blank and full all at once, overwhelmed with a hundred juxtapositions between what he’d thought this might be like and what he’d wanted it to be like and what it _is_. He becomes aware that he’s close all at once—it occurs to him somewhere between marvelling at the reality of getting to _watch_ Ryuji go red and puffy around his dick ( _fuck_ ) and trying to memorize the exact timbre of Ryuji’s voice when it starts to straddle moaning and whining ( _fuck, fuck, fuck_ ). “Ryuji ’m close,” he slurs.

And _shit_ , Ryuji just picks up the pace at that; works his hips more up and down so he’s _bouncing_ on Akira’s cock. He works an arm underneath himself and Akira can’t see what he’s doing, but the telltale movement of his shoulder is evidence enough.

Akira’s hips snap forward, just a little, but Ryuji either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Ryuji, _Ryuji_ , I’m close, I _can’t_ –”

He _can_ , though.

 _Just_.

Right as Akira’s starting to fall over the edge, as he’s swelling up hotter, _hotter_ , _more, yes, just like that_ , as the tension in his hips and thighs and forearms becomes _not enough_ to stop him barrelling into oblivion, Ryuji grinds himself back and flutters around Akira and grits out, “ _Me first_ ,” and comes with a series of hard, rapid twitches.

And Akira can’t help it—doesn’t think about it, doesn’t think about _anything_ , except maybe that growly _me first_ —when he lets go of the chair and pitches forward over Ryuji and holds him tight around the chest as he ruts forward like a fucking dog, lost in wave after wave of sick, overwhelming orgasm.

“That’s right,” Ryuji mumbles, and it sends one last satiated thrill down Akira’s spine.

“...thank you,” he mumbles back, and Ryuji vibrates with some little thrill of his own.

The laptop has gone to sleep. Not-Skull must have finished up a while ago; must have spilled over the seat, hot and intense, fingering himself all the way through. Or does he stop in that one? Does he pull his hand away and let the camera see the way he pulses? Akira can’t remember.

Ryuji tilts gently onto his side and Akira follows his lead, slipping out of him ( _god_ , he’s still a little hard, like his body’s still not over what’s been done to it) as they settle into a more comfortable, familiar spooning position. “So…” Ryuji ventures after long, comfortable minutes. “Better than jacking it to knock-off Skull porn, yeah?”

Akira laughs. “If jacking it to knock-off Skull porn makes _this_ happen, I’m never getting myself off to anything else ever again.”

Ryuji laughs, too, some embarrassment in it, but mostly he just sounds sated—even a bit smug. “I don’t know, there’s a lot more out there,” he says. “You should keep your options open. There’s this one Joker cosplayer on OnlyFans, and you should _see_ the shit he does with that replica dagger…”

It aches, but Akira’s dick gives a pitiful little twitch, anyway. “...you think there are any Joker/Skull duos…?”

He can’t see the face Ryuji makes, but the way his whole neck goes red is a dead enough giveaway. “I’ll send you some links,” he replies.

Akira grins, and holds Ryuji tighter.

There are a lot of weird things about being famous and incognito at the same time, but this, it turns out, isn’t one of them. Or, rather, it _is_ , but it’s a pretty big perk, too, so Akira figures it evens itself out.

**Author's Note:**

> 👀 We, uh...we're just gonna ignore the fact that the public wouldn't know what Johanna looks like from the Shido video, yeah? I just really wanted Not-Skull on a Johanna bike. 👀👀👀
> 
> I have a (NSFW) [Twitter](https://twitter.com/BleedingType), come chill.


End file.
